The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot
by MissMollyBloom
Summary: Inspired by the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. An envelope is slipped under Molly's door. The message reads: Sherlock Holmes has had you deleted from his memory. Please never mention your relationship to him again. Here be angst. But also Sherlolly. And a happy ending, eventually.


**A/N: This fic could also be called "What happens when a random Podcast reminds me of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."**

 **Or, "MissMollyBloom has too many WiPs and a Sherlolly Big Bang fic to work on and instead she's indulging this little plot bunny."**

 **Title is from the same poem that the title of Eternal Sunshine was taken from - "Eloisa to Abelard" by Alexander Pope.**

 **A bit of a mysterious first chapter, but all will be explained...**

* * *

The envelope was slipped under her door while she was watching the nine o'clock news. The man, or woman, who had delivered had long disappeared from sight well before she opened the door and looked out into the hallway. The stationery was thick, lightly watermarked but with a logo Molly didn't recognise. As the turned the envelope over in her hands, she noticed a small, wax seal – the kind used in ages past, sealing letters of intrigue or lovers' declarations. She wondered if either were in store for her as she slid her finger beneath the wax, freeing it from its bond with the paper.

A small, white card fell from the envelope and into her hand. Like a business card, but this was no business matter. Instead, the neat typeface stoically informed her:

Sherlock Holmes has had you deleted from his memory.

Please never mention your relationship to him again.

Molly read the words over and over. Despite the relative simplicity of the sentiment, she failed to understand them on the third, fifth, tenth even fiftieth read.

Deleted.

Molly sat on the lounge, eyes still fixed on the words. It had to be a code, some kind of secret message. She knew his brother was high-up in the Government. Maybe Sherlock had gone on assignment and this was the only way he could communicate with her. She'd received stranger messages from him while he tracked down Moriarty's network. Notes on the inside of Toby's tinned tuna. Messages hidden in every seventh word in her favourite advice column. Spam emails sent in a particular order so as to form complete sentences when caught by her junk folder.

This had to be another one.

Molly spent the good part of an hour subjecting the card to every cryptography technique he'd ever taught her. Nothing worked. Trench codes brought up nothing. Kryptos was a dead loss. Even the most obtuse techniques he'd shown her using on base-6 number systems and sifting vowel displacements yielded gibberish.

In frustration, she decided to do the exact opposite of what the card instructed – she was going to call Sherlock.

When Molly unlocked her phone, the first thing she noticed was that her recent call log was empty. Odd – she rarely bothered to clear it. Next, she couldn't find Sherlock's number in her address book. The entries went from Sheila (her hairdresser) straight to Sienna (her yoga instructor) – skipping Sherlock's entry entirely.

Thankfully, Molly knew the number by heart, and dialled it.

After three rings, a familiar voice picked up, but it wasn't Sherlock's.

"Miss Hooper, I assume you are able to read?" came the unimpressed drone of Mycroft Holmes.

"Of course I can bloody read, Mycroft. What the bloody hell is happening?" Molly demanded, her right hand bunching into a tight fist, as if readying herself to punch the git – which she would have had he been with her in the room.

"It is as you have been informed. My brother has requested to have all memories of your relationship deleted." Recited like a series of facts, or with the emotional content of a telephone book. That was the elder Holmes, through and through, a genius in all matters except the human heart.

Molly, however, was quite the opposite. Wave after wave of emotion crashed over her. Anger, fear, concern, sadness, guilt. One after another. Until finally she could form a coherent thought. "Why the hell would he do something like that?" She asked Holmes the elder.

"Why indeed?" was all he said before hanging up.

* * *

Mycroft had warned his brother something like this would happen. But of course, persuading Sherlock of the truth was as fruitless as standing on Brighton pier and asking the tides to stop rolling in – neither was likely to happen in this reality.

But still, one small caution couldn't go astray.

"Brother mine, as you sure this is a good idea?" He asked, leaning over Sherlock's reclining form, his head already covered by a web of interconnected wires, all meant to map his brain and rewire his thoughts.

A silent scowl was Sherlock's only response.

"And do you believe Miss Hooper will take the news well?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and met the worried lines of his brother's concerned gaze.

"No. But unless you can think of another way-"

It was a challenge, wrapped in a plea, wrapped in defeat. Both men knew they had no other option.

Anthea stood in the corner of the room, eyes glued to her laptop into which Sherlock's memories would soon be transmitted, reprogrammed and relayed. Anthea's eyes widened, as if she'd never seen brain patterns such as these – but of course she hadn't.

Mycroft's little brother was many things, and unique was top of the list.

But Mycroft read something else in Anthea's eyes. Fear. The technology was untested – beyond a few minor government jobs to set-up Snowdon, Manning and Assange.

But beyond a few cover stories and false memories of espionage and the spilling of government secrets, the wholescale re-writing of someone's past had never been attempted.

"We're ready," Anthea informed them. Finger poised over the start button, she added, "Now, I cannot guarantee it will work, Mr Holmes." It was unclear which Mr Holmes it was addressed to.

"It – has - to – work," was Sherlock's determined response before Anthea pressed the button and his whole body fell still. The only signs of life was the rise and fall of his chest and the distinct fluttering of his eyes behind his eyelids – as if in a state of deep REM.

Mycroft began to relax as he saw his brother's sleeping form. But Anthea's laptop soon emitted loud error sounds. He stalked across the room.

"What the devil is going on?" He asked.

"It's impossible," Anthea muttered, eyes glued to the sinewaves as they criss-crossed her screen.

"Well it's happening, so it's definitely not impossible. What is it?" Mycroft couldn't hide the panic in his tone, not that he even bothered trying.

"Here," Anthea pointed to the lines as they broke apart and reconnected. It meant nothing to Mycroft.

"What am I looking at?"

"These memories," Anthea began, then steeled herself to look at Mycroft. "They've been altered before."


End file.
